On Sex and Art

Sex makes the vicious, untamed beast in all of us beautiful. Sex is for the body what art is for the soul, that which connects the physical with the spiritual, the obvious with the very real unseen, a mirror to the face that fears its own reflection. From naked vulnerability flows something that supersedes the power of explanation, defies rationality, and destroys the pain and isolation of knowing what should not be said. Hands speak it, lips speak it, eyes glisten with it, bodies shake and shudder with it. The soul fearlessly exposed, breathes the purest honesty, beyond corruption, manipulation, out of reach of the arch manipulators. It is beyond their understanding because it cannot be argued with, only covered up or ignored. How can love be made real without lovers, truth without belief, fear without monsters in the shadows? The rational, the orderly, the serious is only empty talking, carefully controlled thoughts of a carefully controlled mind that can open the door to the soul but can never enter it because through the door is a violent storm and perfect union lies in the peace of its eye.
Without this nakedness of soul or body the vital spirit that binds beyond the mundane and superficial is destined for demise and extinction under a weight of thoughtless unemotive words. It will desperately cling to rationality and certainty as all that remain but will forever feel incomplete. Think of the cruelty of withdrawn hand, the desire to touch that cannot be, the longing denied only by a rigidly moulded mind. For what?! Why suffer the in the grey mass of frigid, clothed bodies craving intimacy, craving contact, craving a release and true pleasure but it will never come. Not without the sex, not without the art and not without the honesty that each brings surging into the conscious mind. We would die a death at our own hands, in service to our own perverted belief in the quality of restraint, logical only in the illusory confines of its existence, which will come to a quiet and meaningless end in the absence of a vital soul. Why that, when death can be a peace, understood and earned through a fully lived life, through love and sorrow, through an appreciation of the interconnectedness of all things, through a devotion to creation.
Sex can make art of love, dancers of bodies and poets of mouths. Creation and imagination bond people to each other by speaking the thoughts that defy definition, but it is that which defies definition that comprises the limitless soul. From the depths of pain, loss and the cruelty that claw at the soul to the passion, brilliance and joy that galvanizes and immortalises it against all destruction for the infinite span of time, true art can give them form. Whether image, word, sound, voice or sensation, that form can speak to the soul that cries out for understanding in the face of emotions that might rip the soul to pieces or make it glow euphoric. Sex makes universal creation personal and personal creation universal. Neither art nor love will suffer anything other than passionate and brutal honesty in its creation, nor unjudging freedom in its practice. Neither can deliver anything that can be eaten or sold but without them all food is without taste and all the money in the world will not bring satisfaction.